428 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 5, 1912 
sitting bird. The stick struck the limb upon 
which he perched. He turned and snapped at it 
like an angry dog, but did not fly. Another failed 
to dislodge him. I then procured a pole and 
poked him off the limb. My British friend was 
so engrossed in my efforts that Mr. Dendragapus 
went whirling away through the timber unscathed 
by a single shot. 
“Well, I'm blowed,’’ was the disgusted re¬ 
mark of my companion. 
I am persuaded that the seeming unwariness 
of these birds does not extend to their natural 
enemies. Two incidents will serve to furnish 
the reasons for my belief. I had occasion to 
make a professional visit to a remote mining 
camp beyond Elk, Idaho, a country without roads 
and only indifferent pack trails. Joe, my setter, 
was my traveling companion and interested him¬ 
self in his canine way by inspecting everything 
along the trail. He brought consternation to the 
hearts of hundreds of chipmunks and ground 
squirrels, scared the young snowshoe rabbits until 
several of them turned prematurely white, 
brought down upon his devoted head storms of 
vituperation from innumerable long-crested jays, 
and otherwise enjoyed his outing as only a setter 
dog can that has been basking in the sunshine 
on a board walk for several months. We left 
Elk behind and began climbing the higher range. 
The timber grew smaller, then merged into the 
black pine and spruce growth, above which no 
timber grew. I saw a cock grouse on a log a 
few feet from the trail. Joe was some distance 
behind. I rode on a few yards and halted. The 
dog came trotting along, his head down, prob¬ 
ably planning another chipmunk campaign, when 
he caught the scent from the grouse and “froze" 
into an image. Slowly he turned his head until 
he saw the bird, which was sitting with its head 
drawn back, eyes half closed, the picture of in¬ 
dolence and stupidity. Joe turned, crouched and 
began worming himself toward the bird. Inch 
by inch he slipped up until he was within three 
feet of his victim, when he crouched for a spring. 
Just as his muscles grew tense, right at the psy¬ 
chological moment as it were, the grouse launched 
fuil into his face. There was probably never a 
more surprised setter dog lived. He turned a 
back somersault, snapped blindly at the fleeing 
bird, then picked himself up, and trotted sheep¬ 
ishly along after my horse. 
I thought possibly that might have been an 
exceptional case, but kept the matter in mind, 
watching for additional evidence. I got the evi¬ 
dence on another trip into the same mountains. 
In company with my Indians I was encamped on 
the Wet-as meadows one spring, salmon fishing. 
It is not a difficult matter to get a surfeit of 
salmon steak when one has nothing else, so when 
we discovered that a bear used a muddy 
spring near the border of a small meadow some 
two miles from the camp, I determined to add 
some bear steak to our bill of fare. The signs 
showed that bruin used the spring every day, 
and T climbed a small leafy-topped fir tree which 
commanded a view of the spring, and sat watch¬ 
ing for his arrival. I had not been in my posi¬ 
tion more than half an hour before a female 
Franklin’s grouse came creeping through the 
brush and settled on her nest in plain sight of 
where I sat. I had not seen the nest before, 
but that was not surprising, for one might step 
on the eggs and not see them, so perfectly do 
they blend with the surroundings. I fell to 
watching the nesting bird and wondered at the 
wisdom of nature in harmonizing her colors with 
the earth so perfectly that but for her black eyes 
she had been indistinguishable. In perhaps half 
an hour a coyote came sneaking through the 
brush on track of the bird. He had evidently 
cut her trail before the scent laid, and had pro¬ 
ceeded to hunt a grouse dinner. Carefully, his 
nose to earth like a dog, the coyote slipped along 
until he was quite near the grouse, which sat 
perfectly still. The only thing betraying her pres¬ 
ence was the glint in her black eyes, which were 
wide open and apprehensive. The coyote saw her 
and crouched for the spring. As he did so, the 
grouse exploded right into his face with a noise 
like thunder. The coyote was taken by surprise. 
He snapped at the fluttering bird; got a mouth¬ 
ful of feathers and whirled in time to see the 
bird making off into the timber. He dashed 
after her, but it was a hopeless chase. I had 
fully intended making a “good” coyote out of 
him, but was so interested in watching the little 
drama that I forgot to shoot. 
P. S.—I did not get the bear—that time. 
The female Franklin’s grouse, like all the 
grouse family, is a devoted and intelligent 
mother. As soon as the young are hatched (they 
run as soon as they leave the shell) the mother 
leads them to an open hillside where food is 
plenty, and there protects them until they are 
able to shift for themselves. I have frequently 
surprised coveys of these youngsters and watched 
the celerity with which they got under cover upon 
warning from the mother. One cluck and the 
little brown furry balls vanish, not a birdling to 
be seen. You may rest assured, however, that 
numerous bead-like black eyes are fastened upon 
you. The mother dashes at your feet in great 
distress, every bone in her body broken into 
numerous fragments, then trails off dragging her 
body and moaning in mortal agony. Follow her 
for a few yards and she suddenly recovers, 
springs into the air and goes whizzing away, 
cackling her delight at her adroitness in luring 
you away. Return to the spot and search dili¬ 
gently, and you will fail to locate a chick. They 
have taken advantage of your pursuit of their 
mother to leave that dangerous neighborhood. 
Persons unfamiliar with the mating birds of 
these grouse have been mystified by a peculiar 
ventriloquial sound coming from some dense 
thicket of black pine in the spring and early 
summer. The sound puzzled me for several 
years. The “drum” of the ruffed grouse and the 
“hoot” of the big sooty grouse were both fa¬ 
miliar to me, but this sound was different, more 
like the steady rolling of distant thunder. An 
old mountaineer told me it was the love song 
of the fool hen, and I laid my plans to surprise 
him at his amours. It was no easy task; the 
sound was so baffling that it was next to im¬ 
possible to locate it. By exercising unlimited 
patience and considerable time I finally found 
the trysting place and watched the performance. 
It was in a deep lodge pole thicket where there 
was an open space of some three yards in ex¬ 
tent. A small tree leaned out over this cleared 
space, and as I approached a cock grouse was 
deliberately walking up this incline. He paused 
when some ten feet from the ground and sat 
for several minutes, straightened up, vaulted into 
the air, hung suspended for an instant, dropped 
his legs, held his body upright and began to de¬ 
scend beating his wings against his breast. He 
alighted on the ground, sat for some time, then 
climbed the tree again to repeat the maneuver. 
The sound differed from that produced by the 
ruffed grouse in that the cadence was regular in¬ 
stead of a crescendo. 
Late in the fall these birds become strictly 
arboreal, retiring to the tops of the spruce trees, 
where they spend the winter. I do not recall 
having seen one on the ground after the winter 
set in. They feed off the spruce leaves, and in 
a short time become pretty strongly impregnated 
with turpentine. 
In summer and fall the Franklin’s grouse is 
quite palatable and forms a welcome addition to 
the hunter’s pot, but after they begin feeding on 
the spruce, they become so strong that only a 
very hungry man can eat them. If it becomes 
necessary, on account of lack of other food, to 
eat one of the birds at such time, the flesh may 
be rendered less disagreeable by skinning the bird, 
removing the intestines as soon as it is killed, 
then wrapping it in a towel that has been dipped 
in boiling water. It should be allowed to re¬ 
main in this over night. Late fall and winter- 
killed birds should be stewed, the water skimmed 
frequently to remove the turpentine. 
What is a Game Bird in this Country? 
Cape May, N. J., Sept. 25 .—Editor Forest 
and Stream: An extremely interesting question 
was asked me yesterday by a layman after a dis¬ 
cussion on our game laws, i. e., '‘What is a game 
bird in this country?” 
I have spent some time in figuring it out and 
have come to the conclusion that there is no defi¬ 
nite definition that one can hold up to one that 
does not know what the term means. 
Here in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey 
one cannot call any one bird a game bird, be¬ 
cause such birds as the bobolink (or reed bird) 
and purple grackle are shot for eating, and have 
an open season for shooting them. 
In the South the robin is shot, and there is 
an open season for killing them. Take Virginia, 
for instance. The season for shooting robin is 
from Feb. 15 to April 1, the time when the 
robins are on their way North to breed. They 
are not a game bird in the accepted sense, being 
not only insectivorous, but also (in the North) 
a song bird, and should be one of our most 
valued birds here and in the South for these two 
reasons. Yet south of here they are classed as 
“game birds.” 
It seems to me that one way of qualifying 
what should be called a game bird in this coun¬ 
try could be done by judicious laws drawn be¬ 
tween the different species. 
For instance: The so-called “shore birds,” 
i. e., yellowleg, plover, rail, etc., should be put 
in a class by themselves. Woodcock and quail 
should be protected in the same way. After 
these the question eliminates itself to a difference 
of weight among the birds that live inland. 
Any bird over six ounces dressed should be 
classified as a game bird, and a season for that 
bird should be made. Any being under that 
weight should be absolutely protected for the 
good of the communities in general. 
I should like to hear from the men who 
write to you so often on this subject and get 
their ideas on this, to me, new phase of the 
modern bird life. Mark Hopkins, Jr. 
